So men have wider missions than we know.
’Tis not thro’ all their moods they hunger for
Our poor pale faces; as a flame at sea
They seek us in the gloom, and then forget.
’Tis when by dusk the battle-sweat has dried;
’Tis when the port is won, and wind and storm
Are past; ’tis when the heart for solace aches;
’Tis when the road is lost in darkling woods,
Or under alien stars the fire is lit
And when strange dreams make deep the idle hour;
Then would I have my name sing throbbingly
Thro’ some beloved heart, soft as a bird,—
And swing with it—swing sweet as silver bells!
Not all your hours I hoped to see you turn
To my poor face; but when the wayside flower
Shone through the dust and won the softer mood,
And when the soul aspired for better things,
Disturbed by voices calling past the Dawn,
I hoped your troubled eyes would seek my eyes.
And in those days that I have cried for you
And went uncomforted, had you returned,
I could have washed your guilty feet with tears,
And unto you still grown, and gone thro’ sun
And gloom beside you, holding in my arms
Hope’s hostage children, while I gladly felt
The keen captivity of love re-wake
At each light touch, and in the sweet dread bliss
Of motherhood and most mysterious birth
Forgot old wrongs, and starred the hills of grief
30
